


Blazing like Star-Shine

by Neyasochi



Series: Bond and Blade [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, Blade of Marmora Keith, Bottom Keith (Voltron), M/M, POV Keith (Voltron), POV Shiro (Voltron), Prince Shiro & Knight Keith are now King Shiro and Prince Consort Keith, Top Shiro (Voltron), dragon dads Shiro & Keith, very slight Allurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 15:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18831130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: Following a year of gladiatorial captivity, dozens of battles against the Galra Empire, and a war to reclaim the Arusian throne, King Takashi and Prince Consort Keith finally get a breath of peace.





	Blazing like Star-Shine

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third part of my Dragon Age/Arslan Senki-inspired Bond and Blade AU. It makes the most sense following the other two fics, but should still be readable on its own :)
> 
> ((If you notice any typos while reading this, I would appreciate it if you let me know-- thanks!))
> 
>  
> 
> **You can also see[Prince Consort Keith & Ataashi](https://twitter.com/neyasochi/status/1188574812760924160) here!**

Lo! My eyes open'd, shining before me

Greater than mountains, towering mighty,

Hand all outstretch'd, stars glist'ning as jewels

From rings 'pon His fingers and crown 'pon His brow.

_Chant of Light, Canticle of Andraste_

★-☆-★-☆-★

 

It’s still strange to find himself in these halls, even more than two years after their war for the throne and the somber victory that followed. The palace had been half-burned in an effort to deny them. The koi fish in the moats eaten during the siege. The Shirogane banners in the throne room slashed to ribbons.

And now there are mornings when Shiro wakes in the comfort of a down-filled bed with Keith sprawled beside him, staring up at new crossbeams and fresh plaster, and can’t believe that they’re here.

He is home again, and the palace feels truer to that word than it ever did when he was only a prince.

The hot breath against his shoulder is welcome proof of it, as is the feel of Keith slowly waking under his hands. He’s exhausted from a long night of arguing with the royal treasurer, and so is Shiro. Weary from arguing for every coin of funding to revitalize the desolate Ariz Wastes where Keith hails from— to make working roads, manned outposts and waystations, markets to sell reasonably priced grain.

But there’s no other way to force the wheel of change to move, Shiro supposes. And when he and Keith are bullheaded in the same direction, few people have the patience to outlast them.

Keith looks a mess as he sleeps. Wild haired and drooling, a sweaty tangle of long limbs that are as liable to smack Shiro as they are to wind around him with the tenacity of a singularly determined octopus. As bedmates, it’s a perfect trade— Shiro knows he’s no dream to sleep beside, and Keith always takes his shaking nightmares well in stride.

The covers are a little damp when he flips them back. Keith burns like a furnace, always, and their bedroom is still too warm for these heavier autumn quilts. Shiro walks his fingers up the exposed plane of Keith’s back, over faded scars and muscle slack with relaxation, and then carefully combs back the sweaty pieces of hair clinging to his nape and brow.

It’s gotten long again, despite Keith shearing it short not six months past. Galra regrow their hair quicker it seems, and as Krolia’s blood matures in his veins the signs of it present in curious quirks that only add to Keith’s charm. Shiro thinks of him catching the scent on the hunt, well before the dogs do. Of his casual strength as he picks up Shiro and carries him, just because he can. Of the feel of claws trailing gently down his arms and over his ribs when he takes Keith on his back, canines sharpened and eyes yellowed in passion.

He smooths a hand down Keith’s flank before slipping under the covers pooled at his waist, palming down the back of one strong, lean thigh to knead lightly at the muscle. His body is solid, supple, hot to the touch. While pinching his own bottom lip between his teeth, Shiro languidly skims over the shapely curve of Keith’s ass.

It gets him a sleepy little moan.

He curls his starmetal hand around Keith’s hip and slides him closer, grinning crookedly at the drowsy murmur of, “You’d better make it worth waking me up early, Shiro.”

Shiro answers by laying a line of kisses down his spine, drawing the covers further down as he goes. Keith merely groans and folds his arms under the firmness of his pillow, eyes still closed, content to let his morning bird husband take the reins.

“How did you sleep?” he asks while nudging Keith’s legs a little more apart and settling in between them, quickly slicking his fingers with oil from the bottle on his nightstand.

“I dreamt about arbitration and interest rates,” Keith complains. “If I have to sit through another six hours of talk like that…”

“You will,” Shiro sighs, comfortingly patting Keith’s rump while his husband lets out a deeply frustrated grunt into his pillow. “Because you’re a good ruler, Keith. Good for our people, good for the land. I’m lucky to have you by my side.”

Keith rolls his head to the side as Shiro bends and licks a wet line from the juncture of his shoulder to the corner of his jaw, very nearly purring. “Can you offer me some other praise?” he asks, hips shifting as Shiro slips a finger inside of him. “Not that I don’t appreciate the kingdom’s welfare, but at the moment…”

Shiro presses his nose into Keith’s skin and smiles. “Of course, _my prince_ ,” he murmurs, reveling in the way Keith gives a light shudder underneath him. “My royal consort, so pure of heart. The strongest and most loyal knight I’ve ever known. The most handsome, too. With the prettiest eyes.”

Keith snorts into his pillow, though it gives way to a moan as Shiro presses the pads of two fingers against the sensitive spot that stokes pleasure inside him like the bellows of a furnace fanning flames.

“My greatest defender,” Shiro breathes against Keith’s scarred skin, his own heartbeat quickened from the soft sounds his husband makes as he works a third finger into him. “My _kadan-asala_. I’d be lost without you.”

Keith groans so loud Shiro wonders if the honor guard at their bedroom door might hear. Face pressed deeply into his pillow, his words come out muffled. “Gods, just fuck me already, Shiro!”

“Is that any way to speak to your king?” he teases, whispering into one of Keith’s red-tipped ears.

“Your _Majesty_ ,” he moans, drawing out the honorific as he casts a heavily-lidded look back over his shoulder. “ _Please_ fuck me.”

“As you wish.”

Keith lifts his hips and pushes them back as soon as he feels the press of Shiro’s cock against him. It slips in on the first try, head stretching the delicate pucker of Keith’s skin, his rim already reddened from the knuckle-deep flexing of Shiro’s fingers.

Shiro lowers himself onto Keith as he sinks in, perpetually thrilled by how easy it is to encompass him. Even after growing broader and taller from a resurgence of his Galra blood and extensive combat and training, Keith still doesn’t quite match his size. Shiro can splay one hand at the small of Keith’s back and still span his slender waist; he can lay his weight into his consort and press him into the down-stuffed mattress, covering him as completely as the moon can eclipse the sun.

His biceps bunch, forearms resting on the mattress on either side of Keith’s head. And when Shiro moves it’s lazy and slow, the way he’d wanted to take Keith on so many mornings when the frantic rise and ride of war wouldn’t allow them more ten weary minutes alone together.

Keith lays relaxed under him, pliant as Shiro moves against him. His breaths come out tangled up in well-pleased moans that he does absolutely nothing to stifle, and Shiro is almost certain that he hears a nervous cough on the other side of their bedroom door.

Not that he cares. Not now, at least.

These moments are little victories in and of themselves, snatched from so many turns of fate that would’ve taken them apart forever, their union itself formed through no small amount of conviction. There was a time he’d denied himself even the thought of having Keith as a lover, the possibility seeming as distant as the stars. And now that Shiro has him— after enduring heartache and hardship, after shedding blood and sweat— he can scarcely restrain himself when it comes to his prince consort.

He delights in taking Keith in all the ways he’d never let himself imagine when he was still a prince mired in the opinions of the royal court. He tries to impart his admiration in every kiss left upon Keith’s scarred skin, determined to show his love in as many ways as his hands and lips will allow. Shiro worships more dutifully here, like this, than he ever did at any temple.

As Shiro begins to rut into him in earnest, Keith’s hands twist in the loose fabric of the sheets, pulling them taut. If his claws come out, they’ll be ruined— added to the ever-growing pile of blankets for Kosmo and the hunting hounds to bed on. But there’s no popped seams, no shredded silk, no rips in the mattress poofing with escaped down feathers. Not this time. Just Keith grasping hard, bracing one hand against the wooden headboard, writhing and shifting against Shiro as his pace unrelentingly continues.

Shiro can tell when Keith comes by the sudden tension that gives way to a rippling shudder, the clench around his cock as he continues to roll his hips into the other man and drive himself in deep.

Keith looks like bliss as he turns his head to one side and works his cheek into the pillow, eyes still shut and his bottom lip bitten tight. It doesn’t do much to stifle the low, contented moan that pours out of him as he’s pushed into the downy softness of the bed with every thrust. “Shiro…”

“Almost,” he whispers into Keith’s ear, his huffed breath tickling enough to make him squirm. He _is_ almost— almost overcome, almost too full to contain himself. It’s so close he’s drowning in the sensation, every breath coming shallower as he slips under its pull.

And his lungs stutter with the rest of him when he finally finds release in Keith, his heaving chest pressed into sharp shoulderblades, their skin sticking. Under him, Keith makes the softest noise— a whimpering sigh, so quiet after all his unrestrained moans.

“Sorry,” Shiro apologizes as he lifts himself a few inches, freeing Keith. He mouths a kiss at his consort’s sweat-slicked nape, then drops his forehead to rest against the sinewy muscle of strong shoulders. Keith smells musky and warm, a comfort he’s grown used to wrapping himself in; it’ll linger on the sheets.

“Don’t apologize to me,” Keith says as he wriggles and rolls over underneath him, onto his back. A lean leg hooks around one of Shiro’s, heel digging into the back of his calf, and holds him still. Arms stretch languidly over Shiro’s shoulders, looping loose around his neck. “You know I love feeling you all over me.”

Shiro hums into the kiss that Keith gives him, eyes slipping shut. He could spend all morning like this, held in Keith’s arms, sunken into down feathers and silk sheets together. All day, even.

But there is work to be done.

With a groan, Shiro rolls out of bed first. They help each other clean up and get dressed, neither of them especially fond of being swarmed with servants at the start of the day. As with so much, they’re enough for each other.

While Shiro washes his face and slips on his wedding necklace, Keith lays out his attire for the day— a charcoal grey robe with a pale moon and swirled clouds, all of the embroidery stitched in silverthread. Attentive hands help Shiro slip into it, palms gliding over silk and firm muscle as he smoothes out any wrinkles. He even picks the rest of Shiro’s jewelry, sliding rings onto his fingers and securing a silver cuff to his metal arm.

And last, Keith sits Shiro down and combs through his hair. It’s more of an indulgence than anything else, Keith’s nails gentle as he rakes his fingers slow through silky strands, mussing up snowy white locks just to right them again. And when he’s done, he deftly pins back Shiro’s hair in a simple and elegant design, the perfect complement his white-gold and white-gemmed crown.

Keith spends less time on himself, but Shiro supposes he doesn’t need the help. He’s all effortless beauty, as handsome when he tumbles out of bed as he is after hours of preparation for formal events. He’s charming as he brushes his teeth and spits into the bathroom basin, lip curling as he runs his tongue along freshly cleaned canines. A few passes of a comb through his night-dark hair mostly set it to order, but Shiro can’t resist touching the locks that frame Keith’s face. Or the little spike of hair that juts up at the back of his head, sprout-like, visible above the delicate sapphire circlet he prefers to wear.

The scar across his cheek has faded a little more with time, but it will never not be striking against the paleness of his skin; Keith wears it with pride, anyway.

Shiro likes the dark, ashy violets of Keith’s wardrobe, the elegantly simple leathers that he finds so comfortable. He likes the sight of him wearing the Shirogane crest, both on his clothing and on the signet ring Shiro gifted him when they married. He waits on the bed while Keith slowly dresses in front of him, humming approval as his love wraps himself in silks and leather and anything else he chooses.

Shiro’s only contribution to Keith’s outfit is his choice of a necklace to tie around his slender neck. The webbing of fine, dark chain lays hidden under the high collar of his shirt; the sizeable ruby sitting in the hollow of Keith’s throat peeks through the opening. After that, Shiro helps him into his light armor, attentive over every lace and clasp. By the time they’re done, Keith looks more like a retainer than a prince consort, which is just how he likes it.

There’s a sharp thud as Shiro slides the wooden paneling of the bedroom door open— Ser James Griffin’s heels hitting the floorboards as he draws himself to steel-spined attention, eyes staring dead ahead at the bookshelf along the opposite wall. There’s no mistaking the soft blush on his cheeks.

“Relax, Ser James,” Keith tells him for what is probably the dozenth time, voice dry as he finishes tugging on his dark gloves.

Shiro only smiles as the rigid line of the young lord’s shoulders loosens the tiniest bit.

Lord Griffin, along with the rest of their new retainers, had been hand-picked by Sers Yossi and Vio, the stalwart pair who had dutifully guarded Shiro since the day he’d been summoned to the palace as a child. They’d been old enough to parent him; they _had_ , in their own way, given the early death of Shiro’s father and his mother’s inclination to leave him in the care of various tutors and handlers. And their age and years in his service had bred a familiarity that Shiro had come to take for granted.

Now he finds himself trailed by a batch of retainers-in-training not much younger than Keith, by turns timid or stiff in his presence. James is more of the latter— perhaps over-eager to prove himself in this new capacity, to make a good and lasting impression, still as much of a stickler for order and justice as he had been in his days at the Garrison.

Shiro knows that much about him from Keith, who’d had something of a… rough past with James Griffin. Time and understanding had softened the memories of past slights, though. The Griffins had proved loyal when Shiro had needed their aid the most, as had the families of their other retainers— Kinkade, Rizavi, Leifsdottir— and that alone was enough to rewrite Keith’s less-than-favorable opinions of the young nobles he’d studied alongside at the Garrison.

“Your Majesty. Your Highness,” Ser James acknowledges as he falls into step just behind them. “Ser Vio instructed me to inform you that the raiding party along the Narahir coast has been turned aside by Admiral Veronica Vela Rivera. She claimed two frigates and burned the rest.”

Keith whistles low, admiring the feat.

“And both Ser Hunk and Ser Pidge have accepted your invitation for the banquet next month,” James continues. “No word yet from Princess Allura or Ser Lance.”

“They’ll come,” Keith assures him, fingertips brushing against Shiro’s palm before gliding up along his inner wrist. “They will.”

“They’re busy,” Shiro murmurs, already braced for disappointment. It’s understandable. The distance is only to be expected as they all endeavor toward their own aims, their individual dreams. “There’s still much work to be done in Parashant.”

“There’s work to do everywhere,” Keith reminds him. “We’re _all_ busy. Hence your scheming to bring us together again in the first place.”

Outside the door to the royal suite, Ser Ina stands at the ready. Her dreamy expression bellies the sharpness that had shown itself over the course of the war. Her startlingly accurate eye for troop counts and skill for reading their movements had made her a valuable asset in advising the wartable as they crafted their battleplans.

The young retainer inclines her head respectfully at the pair of them. “A messenger from Kolivan came for you in the small hours of the morning,” Ser Ina tells Keith. “The news regards Sendak.”

Shiro stiffens at the name, the first hint of a cold sweat breaking out along his forehead.

Keith’s hand winds around his bicep, fingers gentle as they rumple thickly woven cotton and his palm strokes back and forth over the swell of muscle there. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to.

“Breakfast first?” Shiro asks, the worst of his distress already fading under the comfort of Keith’s touch. He can feel the vise around his lungs loosen, the panic bubbling under his skin subsiding like the frothy tide rolling back out to sea.

“Breakfast first,” Keith agrees.

* * *

The day passes in a flurry of audiences, meetings, and protracted conversations that began innocently enough as quick asides in the palace’s halls. Shiro is too deep within the palace walls to notice the slip of the sun through the sky, too distracted to listen for the bells that chime the hour. He moves hurriedly from one appointment to the next, Griffin ticking off items on his packed schedule while Leifsdottir scrutinizes every courtier and noble they meet.

And all three of them are caught off guard when Keith comes to retrieve him for lunch sometime in the afternoon, emerging from the shadows of a nearby hall with another Blade looming behind him, a hawk perched on his shoulder, and a picnic basket in hand.

Shiro doesn’t bother making excuses as he follows Keith up the palace’s many stairwells, instead fixing on the stares that they get from the palace staff. There’s an air of the wild around Keith— willful and windswept, always more suited to flying on the back of a dragon than he is treading wooden halls or attending court— that’s only accentuated by Hanaryo currently sitting docile on his shoulder. Little wonder the servants stare after him as they pass, only noticing the King of Arus in tow moments after.

And Keith knows him, good and bad and all; has known ever since he was only Shiro’s trusted retainer and friend that Shiro is liable to forget himself in work, regular meals falling by the wayside.

“Your retainers ought to have stopped you,” Keith complains once they’re on the rooftop, alone with the rest of the hawks and their newly built mews. “Told someone to fuck off so you could eat. Yossi and Vio would never have let you go that long without a break.”

“Griffin was trying to keep me on schedule. It’s not his fault there’s so much to see to every day,” Shiro sighs. “And I’m the one who should’ve said something. It just… slipped my mind.”

After Keith spreads a blanket, Shiro kneels down and helps him unpack the small picnic basket. It’s a lunch made by and for the Blades— skewered meat coated in heavy Galra spices, stewed vegetables with dried fruit, dark bread, and nuts sweetened with honey.

“Never understood how anyone could do that,” Keith murmurs as they rest together in the afternoon sun, sharing their meal while the hawks wheel and turn above them. High atop the palace, legs dangling through the slats of the white-washed guard rail that surrounds the rooftop, they can see for miles. “Have all the food they could ever want for and just… go hungry. At any given meal, I’m thinking ahead to what my next _two_ meals will be,” he says, holding up two fingers.

Shiro smiles ruefully at the stark differences of their childhood circumstances. On the palace grounds six stories below, he can see Red and a greying Shabrang in their paddock, their most recent foal prancing around them.

“It just never occured to me to wonder where my next meal would come from,” he shrugs, recalling the odd hours and late nights where his most caring servants had brought meals straight to his bedroom or office unbidden. “Although I do think about it more often.”

His year in captivity had been the lowest point of his life, a base struggle to live; the year waging war against Zarkon in Daibazaal had had its fair share of dire moments, too. Then two years fighting an internal war in Arus, desperate to feed themselves and an army on the march as the countryside burned...

Keith nods. “At least things are better now.”

Shiro blows out a heavy huff of air, nodding along with him. “Surplus of rice and grain this year,” he says, winking. It’s the first the kingdom’s had in two winters, a sign of more comfortable and secure days ahead. Easier times all around, he hopes.

Keith smiles as he strips the grilled meat from the skewer in his hand with his teeth. It’s _qalaba_ , from the stock of sturdy but slow-witted beasts Kolivan had gifted them from the Marmoras’ stocks. For the most part, they used the enormous oxen mostly to feed the Blades’ dragon mounts, but lean times had given Shiro a begrudging taste for the tough, chewy meat that the Galra— Keith included— so enjoy.

The hawks won’t eat it, though. It doesn’t stop Shiro from trying, a little morsel of _qalaba_ meat held out on his palm for Soroush to contemplate.

The hawk looks up at him, confused, and lets out a plaintive little chirp.

“I know, I know. It’s not your usual treat.” Shiro gently runs a finger under her chin, scritching at dark brown feathers, and then sits back to watch as she and Azrael hop away and approach Keith instead.

“He hasn’t got anything better,” Shiro calls to the birds.

But they sidle up to Keith nonetheless, blinking slow and sleepy where they nestle against his outstretched legs. “Animals love me,” Keith shrugs as he chews down the rest of his last skewered meat, running fingers over their glossy feathers.

Shiro can only smile. It’s true. And he knows the feeling well— that irresistible pull to Keith that he can’t and won’t deny.

* * *

 

“Who all did you invite to the banquet?”

Keith sits cross-legged on the bed, half-undressed and surrounded by an array of weaponry. His hair is particularly wild after a day of flying with the other Blades and performing some reconnaissance along the kingdom’s borders.

“Friends,” Shiro answers, “and family. Real family.”

Not his blood relations in the Vale of Narahir, he means, knowing Keith understands. Not the people who’d only ever seen him as an obstacle in their path to the throne, or a weaker successor to his iron-willed mother, or an embarrassment to their bloodline for wedding a commonborn man like Keith.

“The other paladins, Allura, Coran,” he rattles off, thinking back to the sealed letters he’d sent out over a month ago. “Your mother and Kolivan, of course. The Holts. Some of Lance’s siblings, plus Miki, Hewley, Yossi and Vio. I already gave Matt the list to disseminate to the guards. I’m sure he could pen another copy for the Blades, although I very much doubt there are any assassins left who are willing to come after either of us.”

Keith doesn’t answer to that, not at first, but a tic at the corner of his mouth gives him away— amusement, then annoyance, and then lock-jawed determination. “You’d think they’d learn,” he sighs, and with good reason. Keith and his Blades have sussed out a dozen plots and hunted down twice as many would-be-assassins, and he’s merciless where threats to his husband are concerned. “But a wise and handsome prince once told me that it’s better to exercise a little caution ahead of time than weep for the lack of it later.”

Shiro smiles to himself as he watches Keith methodically clean and polish each of his daggers, giving extra care to the luxite blade that originally belonged to his mother. The metal is an unnatural lavender-grey, shimmering with the power to cleave through magic and sever spellwork. It had cut through Shiro, once, slicing away his wicked Galra arm and breaking Haggar’s spell over him. It had saved him.

 _Keith_ had saved him.

Shiro finishes shrugging out of his heavy robes, letting the embroidered silk pool on the floor around his feet, and then pads over cedar floors to the bed.

His hands curl under Keith’s jaw, gently lifting his head. Starmetal fingers brush at the ends of silken locks already growing past Keith’s ear; the fingers of his left hand stroke over the smooth, discolored skin of the scar that arcs up his cheek.

“What? What’s the matter?” Keith asks, a slim hand curling around Shiro’s thick wrist, thumb brushing across the back of his broad hand.

“Nothing. Just appreciating you,” he says as he bends to kiss Keith’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, his soft and slightly parted lips.

Keith’s hum is doubtful, but he smiles under the kisses all the same. “I’m glad you made an excuse for everyone to come visit. It’s been months since we’ve all been in the same room together. I’ve… I’ve missed it. Even Lance.”

Shiro snorts a soft laugh as he sets some of Keith’s blades aside and then stretches out beside him on the bed. The quilts are new, the sheets freshly washed and smelling of the sweet osmanthus flowers that bloom throughout the palace gardens in autumn. “I’m looking forward to it, too. Been too long. And I don’t want us to only see each other when there’s a battle to be fought.”

Keith grunts a muted agreement. Dutifully, he returns his daggers and throwing knives to their sheaths and then carefully arranges them atop the chest of drawers. With far less concern, he tears himself out of his remaining clothing and flops onto the bed with Shiro. Against Shiro. On Shiro.

“Comfortable?” he asks as Keith throws a leg over his middle and clings to him like an octopus.

A warm cheek rubs against the swell of his shoulder. “Yes.”

* * *

Every hour that Keith isn’t by his side seems to stretch twice as long. It’s a mystery of time and space, Shiro knows, all of creation running slow when they’re apart; but Pidge merely rolls her eyes whenever he suggests she use her royal grant to investigate the matter.

This particular day grinds by especially slow. The voices around him drone on forever, not one of them the sweet, smoky rasp he aches to hear. There is no hand settled on his, no familiar touch at his back, no smell of dragonsmoke and wood air to soothe him.

But Keith has dozens of Blades and even more Arusian spies under his command. He has an entire intelligence network to run and myriad threats to monitor. He has his own duties to his mother’s people, the homeland he has in the barren Ariz Wastes, his father’s legacy.

And in the meantime, Shiro has all of Arus to contend with.

He spends the morning in meetings with various advisors and councils, discussing everything from tariffs to codifying new laws to lessen the gap between nobles and commoners. Yossi and Vio enforce a pause for a quick lunch, the both of them iron-willed even in the face of impatient dignitaries, and in the afternoon Shiro hears petitions from commoners and nobility alike. He mediates a dispute between two rival northern lords before it turns to bloodshed. And some five hours later, Shiro finds himself still trapped on the white wood and silver of his throne, surrounded by a small band of minor lords displeased with the way Arusian society has been changing.

Which makes his husband’s unexpected appearance all the more welcome.

The tall throne room doors are thrown open wide, a startled murmur running through the dozens of courtiers and petitioners still scattered around the hall. One of the guards manning the entrance scrambles to announce the Prince Consort’s sudden arrival, stumbling over the list of titles in his haste.

“Everyone out,” Keith announces as he sweeps into the room with Kosmo on his heels, voice ringing clear and unquestionable against marble and white oak. His Marmora mask is still held in one hand— dark and faceless, its strange eye slits still faintly aglow. “Come back tomorrow.”

He approaches the throne with a confidence no other has, his strides long and sure against the tide of people hurrying in the other direction. And Shiro can only watch in subdued awe as the love of his life comes to rescue him once again.

The hem of Keith’s long, dark jacket ripples fluidly around his knees, just above the tops of sleek boots that guard his shins. The tailored silk is all of Arusian make, but it’s Marmoran in color and style— deep and dusky purple, almost grey at times, unlike the distinctly royal shade of the Shirogane clan. And underneath all that soft, pretty fabric lay supple armor, concealed blades, and a body strong and lean.

And Shiro isn’t the only one who appreciates his beauty.

To Keith’s great exasperation, the presence of the Blade of Marmora in the palace had brought masks back into fashion for the nobility. Scars too, but Shiro is just as liable for that one. It’s not uncommon to see nobles combining both, donning elegant half-masks that bear painted scars edged in pearls or gemstones.

Shiro’s noticed courtiers imitating Keith’s style, too, their clothing patterned after his fine but practical wear. Gone are the elaborate and ostentatious dresses and robes; the prince consort’s tastes have brought understated and elegant looks into fashion, with bolder courtiers imitating Galra designs for added flair. In court, Shiro has to smile behind his hand to see many of the same lords and ladies who once sneered at the sight of Keith by his side now vying to impress him, to look like him, to catch his eye.

Keith doesn’t slow when he reaches the dais, easily bounding up the three steps of the raised platform. He does, however, nod respectfully to Yossi and Vio, who share a knowing look.

“We’ll be outside,” Ser Vio says as she takes the hint, looking back over her shoulder as she and Yossi take their leave. She pets Kosmo on her way, hand smoothly running down the spine of the massive wolf.

“ _Directly_ outside,” Yossi adds. He flicks at one of his ears and then points at the two of them in warning; and then he softens for Kosmo, whistling sweetly to the wolf as he fishes a treat from his pocket.

“They really think I’m going to take you right here on the throne, right now,” Keith observes as the two retainers make their exit with Kosmo following in tow, faintly incredulous.

Shiro can only grimace. “In fairness—”

“It was just the one time,” Keith cuts in, as if that makes all the difference.

Shiro grunts under his breath as Keith unceremoniously drops himself onto his lap, the both of them seated on the throne. One hand instinctively goes to rest on Keith’s leather-clad thigh; the other curls around his waist, holding him steady.

“Thank you for coming to get me. Sorry I missed dinner,” Shiro apologizes. “But Yossi and Vio did make sure I got a meal earlier.”

“Good.” Keith flashes a smile, pleased to hear it. “And it’s alright. I was running late, too. Vrek only arrived a little while ago with news from Daibazaal.”

“News?” Shiro asks. “About Sendak? Haggar?”

“About Lotor,” Keith says, his mouth settling into a displeased little line. “He asked the Blades to leave the palace in Daibazaal. A difference in priorities. A lacking of trust.”

Shiro thinks he can feel the faintest twinge of an oncoming headache. “If things get dire in Daibazaal, the Blades can always take refuge in Arus.”

“I know,” Keith says, leaning in to press a kiss to his brow. “And so does Kolivan, but hopefully it won’t come to that. Still… I’d like to scout a site up in the mountains to build a proper Arusian base soon, actually. The climate in Daibazaal is… well, my mother says it’s a kettle ready to boil over.”

Shiro massages his temple with cool metal fingers. Lotor was supposed to be the capable leader left to correct the empire’s failings and hunt down the remaining threats of its old regime, with a cadre of loyal generals and the eyes and ears of the Marmora by his side to help him in the task. Instead, he’d grown so obsessed with pursuing Haggar and the magical realm of Oriande that Sendak was still running amok in the countryside, building up a host of discontent Galra that Shiro knew the warlord would bring to Arus’ doorstep at his first chance.

“Is it too late for that Kral Zera?” he mutters in irritation, voice as dry as Keith’s answering little snort. He’s not ready for another war. None of them are. And the armor of Voltron comes with a heavy burden of responsibility, a power the six of them had agreed to use to stop destruction and bloodshed for as long as they had the strength to wear it.

But they have time. Some of it, at least, and Shiro trusts that Lotor is still a good ally at heart— if still distracted and tormented by his family’s deeds.

Keith shifts in his lap and tucks loose strands of starlight-white hair behind Shiro’s ear; it’s at that awkward, in-between length that always ends up in his face somehow. “Kolivan is just as frustrated. Don’t trouble yourself too much, Shiro. I’ll make sure Sendak burns long before he reaches Arusian soil.”

Shiro smiles ruefully. “If I’d done my job and felled him in that last battle…”

“If he hadn’t turned and abandoned the imperial army, you would’ve,” Keith argues. “But let me do this one thing for you, Shiro. He’s not worth your time or tears or anything else. And besides,” he adds, the twist of his mouth just the tiniest bit savage, “Ataashi could use the free meal. We can barely breed the _qalaba_ fast enough to meet her hunger.”

“Good thing they’re useless for most anything else,” Shiro gripes.

“I do have some good news, too.” Keith waits for Shiro to lift his head, fingers stroking along his jaw before he loops his arms around the king’s shoulders and leans on him so heavy that Shiro groans. His lips brush Shiro’s ear as he whispers, “You’re going to be a father soon.”

He goes still under Keith, lungs half-filled, jaw slipping slack. His thoughts spin so quick it makes him dizzy, amazement coloring the edges of his shock. Softly, he presses his hand to Keith’s abdomen and tenderly feels for— well, he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to feel through the layered silks and reinforced leathers, but he tries.

“Not _me_ ,” Keith snorts, batting his hand away. “ _Shiro._ ”

“I never know anymore! Every month you inform me of some new Galra trait,” Shiro argues, at a loss. “It’s a reasonable assumption!”

“Shiro, please. If there was even a fraction of a chance I could bear children, you’d have made it happen ages ago.”

It’s true, but Keith shouldn’t say it. Red-faced, Shiro goes on the defensive. “Well, no one else is carrying any children of mine—”

“It’s _Ataashi_ ,” Keith laughs, a hand ruffling his silvery hair, teasing it up around his fine white-gold crown. “She laid a clutch of eggs last night. The roost is going to be a hatchery soon.”

“Oh,” Shiro sighs, cupping Keith’s beaming face. “Keith, that’s wonderful! A whole brood of hatchlings? I suppose we’d better ask Kolivan for more _qalaba_.”

“The sire has to be one of the Blades’ dragons,” Keith agrees, shrugging. “It only seems fair.”

Shiro huffs out a small laugh. He doubts Kolivan will be anything less than enthusiastic in supporting Keith’s efforts to foster a new hatchery. Breeding dragons is a trying endeavor and rarely successful— a whole clutch from a paragon of her kind like Ataashi is a boon that’ll have the leader of the Blades thrilled.

“Thank you for giving me some good news,” Shiro says, drawing up Keith’s hand to leave a kiss on his gloved palm. “It’s exactly what I needed after such a long day.”

“Do you have time to hear one last petition?” Keith asks, still teasing his fingers through Shiro’s hair.

He smiles as he stares up at Keith, lost in eyes so dark and rich that Shiro had fretted with the royal portraitist over their color for the better part of an hour. “I’d move the stars for you, if I could.”

“Lucky for you, I want something a little easier to pull off.”

* * *

It takes coin and a small army of stonemasons, but within a fortnight Shiro has the dragons’ roost expanded into a proper hatchery. Its rooms and passages are carved into the very stone of the mountain that backs the palace complex, up a tall and winding set of stairs worn by the steady tread of both visiting Blades and curious Arusian researchers hoping to study living dragons up close.

Ataashi seems pleased with the added room to stretch her wings, moving her clutch deep within the stone one egg at a time. And it’s only a few days later that one of the Blades on duty at the roost sends word down to the palace, interrupting a joint meeting with representatives of the northern houses.

“We should be there when they hatch,” Keith insists, chair screeching over stone as he immediately rises, and Shiro can hardly disagree.

But he is also extremely grateful to be in a room of his staunchest supporters when he’s forced to apologize and excuse himself and his prince consort. The lords along the northern border remember the years that Shiro spent fighting alongside them as a princeling, his maiden battle fought on their behalf at just sixteen, and their lasting fondness for him is one of his greatest blessings. It had kept them loyal through his absence and imprisonment in Daibazaal, his engagement in a war against the Galra Empire on foreign soil, and the civil war against his usurping generals and swaths of the Shirogane clan. And they remain as loyal now, a dozen northern nobles hurling good-spirited encouragement at the two of them as they take their leave to visit Ataashi.

Keith seizes him by the hand as they race across the palace grounds, through posts lined with archers and gardens and the small forest going barren in preparation for winter. Their retainers for the day— Kinkade and Rizavi— puff quietly behind them as they give chase, hands held on their swords to keep them from swinging wildly.

It feels like a thousand steps, but Shiro’s counted before and knows they number only four-hundred-seventy-six. Four-hundred-seventy-six. Halfway up, he hears Rizavi let loose a slew of curses under her breath; Kinkade only sighs.

At the top, Shiro leans into Keith, winded. The Blades stationed at the roost’s entrance— larger, stronger, more enduring than most humans— watch with curiously tilted heads.

Shiro winds his arm through Keith’s as they slip past them and deeper into the newly renovated roost, leaving Kinkade and a wheezing Rizavi at the entrance. The ceilings are taller since the recent renovation, the halls wider. Fresh dust paints the leather of his boots a pale, whitewashed grey. And in a cavernous room set deeper within the mountain, Ataashi rests over her hatching clutch.

She calls out when she sees Keith, jaws parted as an undulating little purr rolls off her tongue. Her sinuous tail weaves its way across the stone floor in excitement. Her red, gemlike eyes alight with adoring recognition.

Shiro follows on his husband’s heels, sticking close. Ataashi cares for him— if only by following Keith’s example— but her affection for him is nothing compared to what she holds for her rider and keeper.

“It’s alright, Shiro,” Keith says as he leans his forehead against her scaly nose and pats her cheek. Slow and patient, he tugs Shiro a little closer, encouraging him to pet the massive dragon.

Shiro spreads his hand over the sleek, muscled curve of Ataashi’s neck and marvels at how she’s grown under Keith’s attentive care. Her scales are comfortingly warm under Shiro’s fingers, smooth and hard as coins; every time she rumbles out a pleased purr as Keith scritches just right under her jaw, he feels it.

It’s an honor to be allowed this close, Shiro knows. Kolivan’s letters had made that clear. An honor and a responsibility, to be trusted by a dragon that could cleanly snap him in half in a heartbeat. He feels it keenly as Ataashi raises a folded wing, revealing the nest she had gouged into the granite and lined with a thick bed of ash. Within sit six dark eggs, dull as porous stone. Like slate, rough and uneven. In one, Shiro sees the barest line of a crack.

He sucks in a sharp breath as the shell bulges out for a moment, then retracts.

“It’s trying,” Keith says softly, already enamored with the little life within it.

When he goes to kneel at the edge of the nest, Shiro follows. He takes his place by Keith’s side, sitting atop folded legs, ash and grey dust coating his pants and the black material of his long jacket.

Behind them, a safe distance away from the mothering dragon, the rest of the Blades gather. Kinkade and Rizavi are somewhere among them, lost in the forest of seven- and eight-foot Galra. And far closer, Ataashi’s head snakes around to hover behind the two of them, her warm breaths huffing against the back of Shiro’s neck and shoulders as she waits and watches, too.

Before Shiro, the telltale hairline cracks appear in the other eggs, one after another. It’s the process of more than an hour, each little hatchling fighting its way out of the shell, but they do.

The first pops forth with a tiny, chittering squeak, sticky and uncoordinated and charmingly clumsy as it heaves itself out of the egg and starts toddling toward Keith. It is white— pure, crystalline white, like the inside of its shell, with an opalescent sheen to its scales. And red eyes. Like star-rubies, same as its mother.

Ataashi lets out an affectionate hiss as Keith lifts her first child up and lets her brush her nose against it, nostrils flaring wide.

And so they go with the rest, who all come in shades more akin to their mother. Two are mottled red and black; one is crimson splotched with bands of white; and another is predominantly red with black points. One-by-one, they push out of their shells and crawl through the ash toward Keith and Ataashi’s looming skull, chirping with excitement.

Until only one egg remains unhatched, the cracked shell flexing where the dragonling within fights to escape. After a few fruitless minutes, Keith gently sets down the other hatchlings and leans over the nest to help, gently wedging a fingernail through the crack to loosen the fractured pieces of shell.

They wait and watch while the last hatchling struggles to make headway. Weary from all its efforts, maybe. Shiro reaches out toward the egg without thinking, only afterward sparing a glance back at Ataashi.

She turns one sharp, ruby eye on him, blinking slow and thoughtful. The loose skin under her throat wavers as she makes a low, chittering sound. Encouraging, Shiro thinks.

He pries the shell open as delicately as he can, tearing the flexible inner lining that had so vexed the little hatchling. And it _is_ little. Smaller than all the rest, coal-dark and stringy-limbed as it weakly burbles and clambers out of its shell. It flops into the nest, belly and legs immediately coated in pale ash. Red eyes blink as it stares up at the three figures looming above, a raspy trill at the back of its throat.

And then it scrambles toward Shiro.

“I— o-oh, hello,” Shiro murmurs as it digs sharp little claws into the fabric around his knees and struggles mightily to pull itself up into his lap. He cups his hands around the small hatchling’s body, still slick with the residue from its egg and powdery with ash, smiling as it curls up against his palm and immediately relaxes.

It’s already exhausted from such a short journey, red eyes blinking shut as Shiro strokes along the back of its neck with his thumb. The little ridges there haven’t even formed spines yet, still squishy soft under the lightest pressure.

“It loves you,” Keith points out, grinning. He’s currently covered by the five other hatchlings, all of them vying for a perch on his shoulders or nestled against his throat.

Shiro has no words for that. Even his horse and his hawks had been trying endeavors to tame, earned through patience amid bites and wary avoidance.

Dry scales brush against his ear, his cheek, his jaw as Ataashi nuzzles against him, still purring low. One of her horns nearly jars Shiro as she dips her head down to sniff the little hatchling in his lap, tongue lapping at the ash covering its scales.

“I suppose we won’t be getting back to that meeting anytime soon,” Shiro says as Ataashi begins to curl herself around them, protective of both her offspring and the humans she trusts to help tend to them. Their observers at the cavern take her hint and back away as the dragon settles in. “Or any other appointments today.”

“Nope,” Keith chirps, looking none too discouraged. Looking thrilled, actually. He leans back against Ataashi’s scaled belly and makes himself comfortable as the hatchlings crawl up his front, arms crossed over his middle to help cradle them.

Shiro can only smile— Keith leaves him little other recourse, sitting there with eyelashes glistening and a beaming smile as the white-scaled hatchling makes an attempt to wriggle under the leather of his vest.

“Congratulations,” he whispers as he leans over to press a kiss to Keith’s grinning cheek, holding the small dragon in his own lap even closer. “I guess we’re fathers now.”

 

* * *

 

Parties aren’t Keith’s thing.

They never have been. Not back when Shiro was a prince and Keith was just the commoner-turned-knight under his wing. Not during the civil war, when shoring up alliances required his attendance at social gatherings of high nobility. And not after the wedding, either, when they were obligated to visit their vassals and attend feasts in their honor.

But he’s looking forward to seeing everyone again at tonight’s banquet. It’s only been months since they last gathered together, but it feels like ages have passed as they all forge their own ways forward.

For now, though, the court is still milling with visiting lords and ladies and lower nobility of all sorts. They’re not invited to the intimate gathering later in the evening, of course, but that doesn’t stop them hovering near Shiro like they can physically foist themselves into his good graces. Many of them will go home and mutter angrily about the king and his taxes, or his modern thinking, or his half-human husband, yet here they’re all but simpering.

Keith sighs.

He slips through the throng of nobility, same as he’d once deftly slid through markets as he picked pockets, and finds his place at Shiro’s side. He can’t always save his husband from the duties of ruling— can’t always whisk him away or banish the crowds— but Keith can endure it alongside him.

He loops his arm through Shiro’s and smiles while his king makes polite smalltalk with the ambassador from Dairsmuid. It isn’t as unpleasant as Keith expects it to be, stuck in the eye of the storm as it were. But a position of command within the Blades and rule at Shiro’s side have both made him tougher skinned than he was as the scrawny thief who first found himself within the palace walls. It’s possible, too, that the court is warming to him. Maybe. A little.

Keith’s certainly noticed… things. Masks that look oddly reminiscent of the ones that the Blades traditionally wear. A trend toward dark colors, dusky and mauve. A renewal in artwork of dragons, a little ripple of awe echoing through the white stone streets of the capital whenever he and Ataashi glide over. It’s been a while since he’s been openly sneered at. Longer still since he was last outright insulted; Shiro had left a clear mark in the sand after that, which few seem willing to risk crossing. People still stare, especially when Keith walks in the company of his Blades or his wolf, but…

The looks are less hostile and more curious, he thinks.

The orphan children he visits show him their toy dragons and ask him endless questions about what it’s like to fly. Courtiers admire his art now, surprised to learn it was the prince consort who re-painted the screens in the palace’s banquet halls after the siege fire, covering the walls in deer and horses and roaring lions. The guards who knew him as the ruffian that Prince Takashi dragged to the palace are more likely to smile as they salute him. The courtiers who’d pointedly refused to acknowledge him when he stood by Shiro’s side now make smalltalk whenever they can. Like now.

_That dreadful Galra warlord still has his sights set on Arus, does he? Have you seen the latest fashions from Nevarra? Is it true that Parashant Fortress is being restored? Have you heard what the commonfolk have started calling the constellation of The Lovers?_

The arrival of their friends proves welcome distraction, the conversation and attention shifting away from the royal couple. Keith can hear Shiro’s quiet little sigh of relief under the excited murmur as Princess Allura and her companions are announced to the room.

Allura dazzles in a dress of white and pale blue that glitters under the candles and firelight. She and Shiro greet each other like old friends, dress billowing as he gently lifts her and spins round. The two of them stay attached at the hip as Allura leads him around the edge of the room, marveling at the delicately painted screens and newly remade tapestries before pausing in front of the royal portrait that features him and Shiro in full formal regalia.

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite half-Galra paladin!” Coran exclaims as he sweeps Keith into a hearty embrace. He shifts, takes Keith by the shoulders, and steps back. “Hold on a tic. Keith, did you get taller again?”

“Just an inch,” Keith admits, laughing as Lance immediately lines up beside him to compare heights.

“Great,” Lance mutters, hands planted firm on his hips as he stares at the top of Keith’s head. “ _More_ Keith to look at.”

“Good to see you too, Lance,” Keith drawls. He squints and tilts his head, feigning difficulty. “Though it’s hard, from _way_ up here.”

“Hah. Hah. Real funny. At least I’m still taller than Pidge.” Lance sighs as he looks around the grand hall that houses the throne, taking in the decorations that have changed to match the season. There are autumnal colors and flowers everywhere, with gleaming apples and dried persimmons piled high in elegant ceramic bowls. “How has the palace been treating you, Prince Consort Keith?”

“Feels like home again,” Keith says, although that’s more a function of Shiro’s presence than anything else. “Feels like I belong. Feels like maybe… people have accepted that I’m here to stay.”

“Well, yeah. I’d hope so, for their sake,” Lance snorts. “Shiro’s made it pretty clear he’s not having it any other way. And good for you,” he adds, nudging into Keith’s side with his elbow.

Keith gives him a small shove back. “It’s been too long since I last flew out to Parashant. How’s life in the Ariz Wastes?”

“Dusty but magical,” Lance sighs, head tilting back. “Like, extremely dusty. My skin has never been so dry,” he complains while patting his cheeks. “But I’ll endure anything for Princess Allura, as you well know. And she’s been determined to use her magic to undo the damage Zarkon left when he razed Altea. So far, she’s managed to heal a little patch about the size of a garden. Coran’s growing some tomatoes on it, I planted a lemon tree, and Allura… Allura managed to grow a juniberry flower.”

Keith blinks. “I thought those went extinct when Altea fell?”

Lance shrugs, his smile crooked and admiration plain. “Well, we thought the dragons were gone too, didn’t we?”

Keith hums and settles back on his heels, wondering if there’s a chance they’ll see living lions again in their lifetime, too. Allura’s return seems to have made anything and everything possible— the Galra Empire crumbling after ten-thousand years, the Ariz Wastes turning verdant again, Altea reborn a little at a time from the ash of what Zarkon had wrought.

“I can’t wait to see it,” Keith says, his smile genuine. “And your lemon tree.”

Lance stands an inch taller, chest puffed out the slightest bit at the show of interest. “We went ahead and set aside a little plot for everyone in the garden, by the way. Hunk’s trying to cultivate some rare Galran long beans and Pidge says someone at the university promised to bring her a carnivorous sundew. She wants to see if Allura’s magic will have any affect on it.”

Keith’s nose wrinkles as he imagines a sundew grown extra large or extra carnivorous. Or both. “Sounds about right for Pidge.”

“Your plot and Shiro’s are side-by-side, of course,” Lance continues, waving a hand. “The next time you fly out, bring him and whatever you want to plant. Allura’d be thrilled to have a living reminder of everyone all in one place.”

“Alright,” Keith easily agrees. He has no idea what to plant, but he trusts Shiro will pick something lovely for the both of them. “And how _are_ things with Allura?”

“Good. Good,” Lance says, voice climbing a note higher. He clears his throat. “I enjoy spending time with her and I think she’s been happy to have my company, too. Not that there are a lot of options out in Parashant. It’s me or Coran or the dust-weevils, basically.”

“If she didn’t like your company, she wouldn’t have asked you to stay with her as her queensguard,” Keith points out. “And, as one man in love with royalty to another… maybe I could give you some tips?”

“Keith,” Lance deadpans, his cheeks suddenly a shade darker. “I appreciate the sentiment but you’re the absolute last person who needs to be giving out romantic advice. Sorry, I don’t plan to pine after Allura for six years before finally making my move.”

“It worked, though,” Keith shrugs as he trails after Lance, whose groan echoes in the tight confines of the hall as they slip outside to talk with fewer ears around.

By the time Matt and a couple of other royal guards come round them up for dinner, the stars are out. Keith glimpses them through slitted windows meant for archers as the ascend flights of stairs, the fall chill slipping its fingers through the narrow gaps.

The dining hall is toasty, warmed by an ample fire in the hearth on the far side of the room, its long table nearly full. His mother and Kolivan sit beside each other, deep in conversation. Coran and the Holts are already playing a drinking game, a spot saved for Matt in between Pidge and Enseven, the Blade he’d grown close to. Hunk is already in the middle of explaining one of his latest engineering feats to Veronica and a few of Shiro’s childhood caretakers.

And Allura and Shiro sit side-by-side, pale-haired and pretty, laughing together as she animatedly retells a story that involves a lot of wringing motions and punches.

Keith rolls his eyes at Lance’s wavering sigh, bending low to unlace his boots before he steps onto the brand new tatami flooring. He takes his place at Shiro’s right, settling cross-legged between his husband and his mother.

It’s an intimate, family-style dinner, which is the kind Keith likes best— little standing on formality, few rules, and no pressure.

He leans out of the way as his mother and Kolivan reach over each other to pile his plate high with grilled meat slathered in chilies, the both of them convinced he still has more room to grow. Shiro supplements it with roasted pumpkin and pickled vegetables from his own plate, selecting only the choicest pieces to set in front of Keith. When he isn’t feeding Keith directly off of his chopsticks, that is.

“Right in front of us,” Lance complains from the other side of the table, eyeing Keith. “No shame.”

“Let’s be honest, it’s hardly the worst thing anyone at this table has seen them do,” Pidge says before slurping up a small bowlful of warm noodles in one go.

“Or heard,” one of Shiro’s retainers adds, getting knowing looks and quiet laughs around the room.

“As your sworn king,” Shiro says in between bites, “I suggest you say something else.”

“Hear, hear,” Keith agrees, clinking his wine glass into Shiro’s.

The tide of the talk shifts to their recent exploits: Hunk incorporating Altean engineering into new defensive measures, with Allura’s help; Pidge, baggy under her eyes, still working on her thesis; Lance serving Allura and Coran as they work toward the seemingly impossible task of revitalizing the Ariz Wastes. And somewhere in between Kolivan praising the new hatchery’s success and Ser Hewley quietly passing out after challenging Krolia to a drinking contest, Shiro’s hand finds his under the table and holds it.

* * *

Deep into the night, their little party finally splinters.

Lord and Lady Holt head to their guest room first, yawning heavily, and are followed shortly after by Shiro’s childhood caretaker, Miki, and his aging retainers. Matt eventually slips out with Enseven, while Lance’s sisters hug Allura tight before bidding the table a goodnight.

Keith smiles as his mother kisses his cheek and then leaves with Kolivan, the pair of them eager to check on the hatchlings in the roost.

Then it’s just the seven of them, like it so often had been during their time in the Ariz Wastes and the Galra Empire. And Ser Hewley, passed out where he lay sprawled across the tatami flooring.

“To our splendid hosts, who are as magnanimous as they are handsome,” Coran says, lifting his glass toward the center of the table. The toast is met with a warm but sleepy murmur. Lance struggles to lift his cup without sloshing; Hunk is already facedown on the table, groaning.

“Hopefully we’ll be able to host our next get-together in Parashant, once we have restored the fortress to its former glory,” Allura contributes, still looking the picture of perfect poise despite downing as many cups as Shiro and Keith combined. “I would love for you all to see the progress we’ve made, small as it is.”

“Not small,” Lance trips over his tongue to say. He swallows deep. “You’re amazing. Unbelievable. S’like watching a goddess work.”

Allura clasps her hands and looks a mix of heart-touched and pitying as Lance teeters, looking like he’s about to pass out beside Ser Hewley. “Oh, Lance…”

“And I would love for you all to see my plans for the fortress interior,” Coran butts in, similarly disaffected by the wine. Apparently a lifetime of drinking nunvil renders anything less intoxicating more or less ineffective. “A coat of fresh plaster, some tasteful crystal chandeliers, and I’m thinking… seafoam green? Yes? No?”

“I _feel_ like seafoam green,” Pidge murmurs, a curled hand pressed over her mouth. And sure enough, her skin has an off shade to it, slightly sickly from all the drink.

“I think it might be time to call it a night,” Shiro decides, the table responding in grunts and disappointed little moans. “You’re all welcome to stay as long as you like, of course. I would like the palace to be a second home to all of you, always.”

“We’ll see you for breakfast,” Keith says as they help each other up, the drunk aiding the drunker. There’s a slight waver in his own legs, but it’s nothing compared to the stumbling around him. “Or maybe brunch. Give us more time to sleep it off.”

“Brunch sounds lovely!” Allura says, chipper as she more or less carries Lance out of the dining room, effortless even as the Varaderian knight hangs in her arms like a limp noodle.

As a pack, they wander down the guest wing, laughing and shushing each other by turns. Shiro and Keith see each of their friends to their rooms, bidding them goodnight one-by-one. And eventually it’s just the two of them on their way upstairs to the sixth floor, nodding to pairs of royal guards and Blades as they approach the royal suite.

Outside their bedroom quarters, Keith finds Vrek waiting with a wriggling, writhing mass in her arms, as dark and sleek as congealed ink.

“I have been waiting for you for more than an hour,” the large Blade complains to him in Galran, struggling to hold onto the hatchling once it catches sight of Shiro.

“It’s late. We were still with friends. Why have you brought Katari down from the roost?” Keith questions, a hand automatically going to pet the small dragonling. It comes as no surprise that it does little to soothe Katari’s excitement.

“Krolia asked me to. She said he missed your mate,” Vrek answers in the common tongue of Arus, unceremoniously handing Katari off to Shiro. “Wouldn’t stop crying. Wouldn’t let the rest of the clutch sleep, either.”

With upturned brows and the smallest pout, Shiro cradles the black-scaled drake close. Katari chirps contentedly as a metal finger brushes against his nose, tickling til a tiny puff of smoke curls from his nostrils.

“Goodnight, Commander,” Vrek says before she goes, a fist thumping her chest in salute. She pauses, yellowed eyes glancing between Keith and Shiro, who is cooing nonsense to the tiny drake. “And good luck.”

“You baby him too much,” Keith teases as they slip past Leifsdottir and Rizavi. Inside their darkened bedroom, he starts peeling off his clothes. The bed calls to him, soft and sweet, now that all the wine’s left him drowsy.

“He _is_ a baby,” Shiro mutters under his breath, chin tucked to his chest as he blows a kiss to the purring drake.

The sight makes something stick in Keith’s throat, a smile curling on his lips.

He’d spent years riding into battle beside Shiro. Years watching him fight illness and the confines of his mother’s rule. And years more missing him, searching for him, holding him close while his new wounds scarred over and the nightmares settled in to stay. Through it all, Shiro had always found it in himself to be tender, to be kind, to be nurturing; peacetime has let him indulge in it more often and openly, and Keith is glad for it.

“Where’s he going to sleep?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Between us, where he feels safe,” Shiro says, juggling the baby drake from arm to arm as he shucks off his clothes. He tilts his head when Keith’s eyebrows go up in silent amusement. “Keith, if you get to bring Kosmo into bed whenever it thunderstorms, I get to bring Katari in when he misses me.”

“Until he’s too big for the bedroom,” Keith laughs as he slips under the covers, joined by Shiro a moment after.

All his husband still wears is a delicate silver chain around his throat, a carven dragon tooth dangling from it. One of Ataashi’s, from when she was smaller. Keith had spent weeks etching into the pearly bone in his downtime during missions, perfecting a design meant just for Shiro— stars and a stylized lion, with silverdust worked into every groove. He’d looped it around Shiro’s neck when they married, fingers shaking as he fastened the clasp at his nape in front of a few dozen friends and allies.

And Shiro’s worn it every day since.

“Drakes don’t get _that_ big,” Shiro dismisses, words sluggish with the heaviness of sleep. He yawns and the hatchling immediately imitates him, toothy little jaws opened wide. “And Kosmo’s no pup himself.”

Keith has to agree there. His wolf had continued to grow after their return to Arus, fed on a richer and steadier diet than he’d ever had in Daibazaal, and now the bed frame squeaks in protest every time Kosmo hops up to curl with them. But that’ll be nothing compared to a full-grown drake still looking to cuddle up to his favorite human...

Keith is glad for Shiro’s soft spot for the hatchlings, though, and for this one in particular. There’d been a time that he had feared and understood that Shiro might never see the Marmoras’ dragons as anything but monsters— the scars that ring Shiro’s shoulder came from the piercing crunch of a dragon’s bite, after all, as he was forced to fight the starved, miserable creatures that the Galra captured for bloodsport.

But Shiro has always been quick to forgive, quick to extend the hand of trust, quick to grant extra opportunities. Keith knows it from experience.

Between them, Katari flattens himself against Shiro, scaly head pillowed on his chest. The ridges on his back are still soft and malleable enough for Keith to pet them, spines easily bending under his gentle strokes. The small dragon gives a contented purr, its red, slitted eyes rolling shut as it basks in the warmth and safety of their bed. _Like a scaly cat,_ Shiro had observed in wonderment the first time Katari curled in his lap. _Like a fire-breathing kitten._

And once Katari slumbers, Keith instead raises his his hand to cup Shiro’s cheek, loose locks of ghostly white pressed under his palm. White hair, snowy brows, frosted lashes. _Spirit-touched,_ Keith had called it when Shiro first despaired at his reflection, every trace of his youthful jet-black hair vanished.

It holds even truer now, as Shiro’s hair comes to fall just past his shoulders, sleek and ethereal as silkworm threads. It hasn’t been this long in ages. Not since the year they first met— on a street not terribly far from the palace, as charming prince and desperate thief, their paths tangled in a knot that could easily have been undone by a simple swordstroke.

Instead, they’re here. Together.

“You found me when I was lost, you know,” he whispers while Shiro sleeps, the night’s reminiscing with their friends leaving him especially soft and sentimental. Ten years ago, Keith slept in alleys, on rooftops, curled in musty hay until he was shooed back onto the streets; now he beds down with a king, a respected leader in his own right, surrounded with more love and friends and family than he could’ve ever dreamed of after losing his father. “You saved me first.”

A grey eye cracks open, pale lashes fluttering. “I’d argue that _you_ found _me_. _Kadan-asala_ ,” he adds in softer tones, the Galran endearment making Keith melt. He grins, small and uneven. “Your boot certainly found my face, anyway.”

Keith hums, idle fingers tracing his husband’s jaw, where he’d left one hell of a bruise. “And you’ll never let it go, huh?”

“No. Never. How could I?” Shiro murmurs through though the half-hold of slumber. “You changed my life that day. Changed the fate of the whole kingdom. I wouldn’t be here without you. Wouldn’t be who I am,” he rasps.

“Same.” Keith makes a soft, satisfied sound and scoots closer to Shiro. His hand drops to the other man’s hip, giving it a squeeze as he tucks his head under Shiro’s chin and breathes in deep.

He’s never felt safer than in Shiro’s arms, nose pressed into the steady beat that strums through the column of his throat. An arm of hard light and starmetal drapes over his shoulder, hand spanned against his back like a shield; it presses Keith nearer to him, tucked close as he nuzzles into the fluffy, feathery hair at the crown of Keith’s head. And then chilly feet slide against Keith’s calves, leaching his warmth, making Keith squirm under the covers.

Between them, Katari chirps and rustles. He wriggles stubby legs and spindly wings, inching higher until he’s happily wedged in the narrow gap between Shiro’s chest and the hollow of Keith’s throat. And, finally satisfied again, he snorts out a scorching little breath and settles down, tail thumping gentle against Keith’s ribs.

Shiro’s even breaths tickle at the crown of his hair; the steady beat of his heart soothes Keith and Katari alike.

“Sleep well, Shiro,” Keith tells him, half expecting Shiro’s already asleep. It’s been a long day but a good one, and morning will no doubt see Lance eager to spar with him and Allura. “My king. My _kadan-asala_.”

“My prince,” Shiro breathes back, soft as a ghost’s whisper. His hold on Keith slackens as he slips under sleep’s veil, but not before murmuring a few more words. “My knight. My love. Where my heart lies.”

The last bit is mumbled and indistinct, but Keith knows the shape of Shiro’s words by heart. He follows Shiro into slumber moments after, just a step behind— together, even as they sleep, twined tight in this realm and the one of dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to read more about this AU, check out the rest of the series! I added some extra tidbits about this AU [on my twitter](https://twitter.com/neyasochi/status/1128480732198973441) too.
> 
>  
> 
> Dragon names pulled from Qunlat, which I liked using for Galran! Drakes are male and are considerably smaller; female dragons are more suitable for riding. Katari’s name started in jest among the Blades— “one who brings death” for this runty, ankle-biting terror that Shiro treats like a kitten— and ended up sticking. His big sister, Anaan (victory), ends up being Shiro’s mount. And Ataashi literally means dragon, lol.
> 
> Kadan is “where the heart lies,” asala means soul. It's not romantic in DA, but I made it super lovey here.


End file.
